What made the events of the evening even more startling for the assembled onlookers were the words the man said, as his date removed her hood.

‘You look just like your profile picture,’ he said.

This doesn’t often happen on dating websites. Not that most people are attempting to intentionally mislead -- not at all. It’s largely to do with a combination of the desire to look one’s best and the misleading nature of photography. In one picture, taken from, let’s say, beneath your chin (if your phone is in selfie mode, for example, taken by mistake when you attempt to take a picture of the lake in central park) you’re a bulbous-chinned, oval-cheeked monstrosity. In another, taken in the right light and from a suitable angle, with your hair in the perfect place and your jaw set just-so, you’re the reincarnation of James Dean, the embodiment of unobtainable celebrity perfection.

This phenomenon of some-pictures-being-better-than-others could apply only loosely to this man’s date. No fiddling with angles, dimming of lights or application of tasteful makeup could hide what sat across the table, studying the extensive wine list with the air of a connoisseur. The dim lights of the restaurant, at which the man kept a perpetual reservation, did nothing to conceal her flaws. Though flaws might be the incorrect word, for she was perfectly acceptable looking, for what she was.

Her legs were long, shapely, and attractive. The spot in which her thighs met her waist was a masterpiece of biological carpentry and her backside, though it was currently being sat upon, was a marvellous thing, featuring two shapely buttocks as close to perfect as any buttock ever was.

All of that aside, and aside it must go, she also had the head, though not the neck, of a polar bear. Sat atop a perfect neck, not at all far from a splendid pair of absolutely symmetrical breasts, a polar bear’s head, all fur, and snout, and teeth, gazed out at the world with docile self-assurety.

‘Would you care for a drink?’ the man asked.

The Bear-Woman nodded, grunted and reclined. Her beady eyes were totally black, but for a ring of translucent brown around their edges. The other diners, an elite clientele, gaped. Each waited for the other to set some kind of alarm. None did.

The man, closing his menu, reached over and placed his hand on the Bear-Woman’s wrist. His two forefingers stroked the fine hair of her forearm.

‘Or,’ he said, ‘we could pick up a bottle of wine on the way back to my apartment. Do that thing we spoke about in your message?’

The Bear-Woman released a low, seemingly agonised moan, shook her almighty head upon a neck which looked unable to hold its weight, and stood. She leant over the table, exposing wondrous cleavage in a tight-black dress, and snapped her jaws shut just inches from the man’s face. He grinned lasciviously, and stood, taking her exquisite hand and leading her from the restaurant so quickly that she forgot her purse.

A waiter, figuring that his professional capacity gave him authority over the situation, went through it, in search of answers.

‘Half a salmon,’ he said, ‘and a collection of twigs, leaves, and other assembled foresty-looking crap.’

A woman three tables over, an animal behaviorist by trade, spoke up.

‘That’s perfect material for bedding, if she’s raising young.’

‘Raising young with that guy?’ asked a well-known Hip-Hop star from another table.

'It’s not natural! It’s against God!’

‘It’s against nature!’

‘It’s against sense!’

‘This is insanity,’ they collectively mumbled.

‘An abomination,’ they decided.

‘We’ll never forget this,’ they all agreed.

But all of them did, very, very quickly.

From down the block, the sounds of a woman with the head of a polar bear, falling in love with a man she’d met on the internet, echoed into the night. They wanted only to live without judgement. The sound she made as they consummated their love, though not so easy to reproduce here, was something like ‘Burrruuuuarghhhhhhhhuummmm.’

Robin is a writer and editor living in Manhattan. His heroes include Haruki Murakami, Teddy Roosevelt, and the new Titanosaur at the Museum of Natural History. When he’s not writing, he pursues his love of astrophysics, and thinks he might finally understand special relativity. He hopes one day to persuade Neil DeGrasse Tyson to explain it to him.​He has over a dozen fiction publications to his name, and credits that success to his wife’s excellent proofreading. He is twenty-six.